Читать книгу Stalker - Faye Kellerman, Faye Kellerman - Страница 11

“Hollywood had six similars over the last two years,” Oliver explained. “All of them are opens. Two are out of the loop, but the four I flagged have common details.”

They were in Decker’s office—not much more than a cubicle except it had a ceiling and a door that closed to afford privacy for those inside. Decker was sitting behind the desk; Oliver and Marge sat on the other side. Decker’s phone lights were blinking, but the ringer was off.

Paging through one of the red-marked folders, Decker took in the basics—the crime, the place, the time, the weapon, the extenuating circumstances. “The woman didn’t have a kid. Or did I miss something?” He handed the file back to Oliver.

“No, she didn’t have a kid. But she was carrying groceries, which means that her hands were occupied. Perp used the same method of approach. Sneaking up behind her and putting a gun in her back. Asking her to drive. Not all of our cases involve a kid.”

“Only one didn’t involve a child,” Marge said. “The rest had infants and toddlers.”

“So maybe this one was Hollywood’s exception,” Oliver answered. “Look, I’m just bringing it to your attention. You want to throw it out, be my guest.”

“It has been brought and duly registered,” Marge said.

Oliver said, “By the way, how’s your kid doing?”

Marge tried to hold a smile. “Vega’s … adapting very well.”

“How are you adapting to motherhood?” Decker asked.

“I’m doing fine,” Marge answered. “Look, the way I figure, even if it does get rocky over the next few years, it’s time limited. She’s thirteen now. When they’re eighteen, they’re out of your life, right?”

The men broke into instantaneous laughter.

“What?” Her eyes darted from Oliver to Decker. “Fill me in. I could use some yucks.”

Decker shook his head. “Margie, it’s just one of those … parental things. You’ve just got to be there.”

“Why spoil her fantasy?” Oliver asked. “And that’s what she’s talking about—a real fantasy.”

Marge said, “I’m going to ignore both of you.”

Decker let out a final chuckle, then rummaged through another case file. This one hadn’t been flagged. He studied the folder for several minutes. “So you think this one with the lady and the red Ferrari isn’t a match.”

Oliver said, “First off, it’s a hard thing to carjack a Ferrari. The car has manual transmission. And even if you can drive a stick, you gotta know how the gears go. And even if you know the gears, you gotta know how to drive a very temperamental car. Also, she was a lone woman and wasn’t carrying anything to slow her down. It’s not the same MO. Kidnapping for ransom. She was rich.”

Marge said, “Sounds like the Armand Crayton case.”

Decker said, “Except she didn’t die like Crayton. Or maybe she did.” He looked at Oliver. “What happened to her?”

“I assumed that the ransom was paid, and she’s fine.”

“And the kidnappers were never apprehended.”

“Obviously not. Otherwise the case wouldn’t be open.”

“Odd,” Decker said. “Kidnapping has the highest solve rate. Did they get the car back?”

“I don’t know,” Oliver said. “I’ll give Osmondson a call and do some follow-up.”

Decker said, “This lady drove a red Ferrari, Crayton drove a red Corniche. You don’t think there could be a connection?”

“What?” Oliver said. “Like a two-tiered ring?”

“One for high-end, one for low-end.”

“A couple of the mother-baby jackings have involved Mercedeses,” Marge remarked.

“Two Mercedeses, five Volvos, one Beemer, one Jeep,” Decker said. “Not in the same league as Ferraris and Corniches.”

“In the Crayton case, the kidnappers didn’t ask for ransom,” Marge said.

“They never got that far,” Decker said. “The car plunged over an embankment and exploded. Crayton was burned to death.”

“All I’m saying is that his widow never got a call.”

“Armand Crayton had been implicated in criminal activity,” Oliver said. “He’d had dealings with scumbags. We never ruled out a hit.”

“That’s true,” Decker said. “When he died, he had several suits against him.”

“The Ferrari driver … what’s her name?”

Decker flipped through the papers. “Elizabeth Tarkum.”

“So far as I know, she didn’t have a rap sheet. She was just a rich wife in the wrong place at the wrong time.”

“A rich, young wife,” Decker said. “Twenty-six, and she was driving a Ferrari.”

Oliver raised his brow. “Crayton was what? Thirty?”

“Thirty-one,” Decker said.

Marge said, “What was Crayton involved in? Like a pyramid scheme?”

Oliver said, “He was selling land he didn’t own … something like that.”

“No, he owned the land he was selling,” Decker said. “But for some reason, he went bust. Details were always hard to come by. I always had the feeling that someone was fighting me.”

“Like who?”

“Don’t know,” Decker answered. “I sent Webster after the wife, but he never got anywhere.”

Marge said, “Maybe this Tarkum lady had some skeletons of her own. You know … driving a Ferrari at twenty-six.”

“There’s nothing to suggest that in the case file,” Oliver said.

Decker said, “How old’s her husband?”

Oliver shrugged. “Haven’t a clue.”

Marge picked up her cup and dripped coffee on her lap. Frowning, she wiped the spot off of her pants with her fingers. “That’s why I wear black. I can be a slob and no one notices.”

Decker handed her the tissue box. “It’s why I wear brown. Then you really don’t notice.”

“You’re the only one in the entire department who can get away with baggy brown suits,” Oliver said. “They’re so out, they’re in.”

Decker smiled. “That’s me. A real trendsetter.”

Oliver glanced up from his file. Deck had a deskful of family pictures—Cindy, his little one, Hannah, his stepsons, several of his wife, Rina. They were angled so Oliver could see them. He had never noticed them before. The smell of Marge’s coffee had tingled his nose. His stomach growled. He’d left his own cup at his desk. He seized Marge’s mug, took a drink, and made a face. “What the hell did you do to this?”

“What?” Marge said. “I put Equal in it—”

“How can you drink that shit?”

“Oliver, it’s my coffee.”

Decker smiled. “You want mine, Scotty? It’s black. A little tepid, by now, but it’s unadulterated.”

“I’ll get my own, thanks.” He stood and took Decker’s mug. “As long as I’m up, I’ll pour fresh.” His eyes went to Marge. “Do you and your chemicals want a warm-up?”

“At least my chemicals don’t give me a hangover.”

“You’ve got a point. Now do you want a fresh cup or not?”

“He gets fresh, I get fresh.” She handed him her cup. “Two cream powders, one Equal. Don’t say a word.”

He flashed her the peace sign. “Be back in a sec.” Mugs in hand, he walked to his desk to retrieve his own coffee cup when his phone rang. He put down the crockery and picked up the receiver. “Oliver.”

“Hi.”

He hesitated a moment. “Hi.” Then to let her know that he recognized the voice, he added, “How are you feeling?”

“I’ll be glad when the day is over.”

“What are you doing?” Oliver flipped his wrist, looked at his watch. Ten-thirty. “It’s way too early for lunch.”

“Code seven—ten-minute break.”

“Ah, doughnuts and coffee.”

“Just the coffee,” Cindy answered. “Everybody’s watching the fat.” She waited a beat. “Is this a bad time?”

“Sort of.” He glanced over his shoulder, eyes on Decker’s office. The door was still closed. Then he wondered why he was so concerned. “What’s up?”

“I’ll make it quick. I just wanted to properly thank you. In my stupor last night, I think I had forgotten.”

“Forget it—”

“No, I won’t forget it, I’ll learn from it. I’m embarrassed, Scott. Not so much that I was tipsy, but that I attempted to drive. That was really stupid. More than that, it was really dangerous.”

“Yes, it was.”

She laughed over the phone. It was light and airy. “At least you’re honest. Anyway, it won’t happen again.”

“We all mess up,” Oliver said softly. “If you learn from it, you’re one step ahead.”

“Again, thanks for rescuing me. Bye—”

“Look, do you … Nothing.”

“Would you please complete the sentence?” Cindy requested. “Do I … what?”

Again Oliver looked over his shoulder. “Maybe we should talk over a cup of coffee. I still know lots of guys in Hollywood. I could fill you in on a couple of things.”

“Such as?”

“Give you the lowdown.”

“The lowdown on the guys …” A pause. “Or the lowdown on me.”

“Maybe both.”

Cindy sighed. “Don’t bother, Oliver. Beaudry has already pointed out my deficiencies. Apparently, they are many and varied.”

“Has he told you the good points?”

“He’s still searching.” A few seconds passed. “Are there good points?”

He took another glance behind his back. Marge had opened the door, holding out her hands like a balance scale—a “what gives” sign. He held up a finger, indicating one minute, and whispered, “This isn’t the right time. Look, you get off at three, I get off around five. I’ll come to your side of town. How about Musso and Frank at seven?”

“A bit rich for my pocketbook, Oliver.”

“It’s my treat.” He spied Marge motioning to him. “I gotta go. Your father needs my swift insights.”

“Don’t say hi for me.”

“Sweetheart, I have no intention of bringing up your name.”